"Zach?"
"I'll get it in a minute."
In the face of his pain, another idea glimmered across her mind. Hadn't she navigated around a large bottle of baby oil sitting on the counter during her search for the pills? Wasn't that stuff sometimes used to ease scar tissue?
Yes and yes.
She retrieved the bottle and returned to his side, settling onto the mattress where she could reach his knee, leg, and ankle. He still wasn't eating. He was drinking, though. Dehydrated from all that sweating? Maybe. Better make sure to get some water into him soon, she reminded herself, just as soon as he finishes that laced can of Coke.
She snapped open the baby oil, filled her hand with the clear liquid, and reached for him.
He jumped and knocked her hand away. Drops of baby oil spattered the wall, curtains, and lampshade.
"Fuck! What are you doing?"
Annabel frowned and squirted more of the oil into her hand. "A gentle massage will ease the muscles and stop their cramping. The baby oil is good for scars. It keeps them from binding up the surrounding skin. Don't worry. I'll be careful. I promise."
She reached for him again.
He twitched away, resulting in a cascade of curses and a renewed white-knuckled grip on the blankets. "Stop," he said on a gasp.
She offered him a smile meant to be reassuring. "We're building trust here," she said.
He didn't have a lot of fight in him, apparently. He settled back with a groan, a heartfelt curse, and reddened cheeks. Zach probably wasn't familiar with or comfortable with needing nursing. This situation had to be his worse nightmare.
Can't be weak and needy around a girl. God forbid!
Slowly, tenderly, she began the massage, working to ease the tense, tight muscles. After a few minutes of this, she heard him release a long sigh and relax. His brutalized leg muscles loosened beneath her hands. The pill? Broken pills were quicker absorbed into the body. She'd learned that during her drug-using days.
He reached for a wing and put it to his mouth. His white teeth pulled at the meat, stripping it from the bone. He chewed and swallowed, then repeated the process.
"What brought this on?" she asked.
"PE Board," he said. He dropped the cleaned bones onto the plate and selected another.
"The what?"
"Spicy," he said, nodding at his plate, apparently not hearing her question. "Good." He took another long pull from the soda before running her through his day as he ate.
Morning duties handled at the recruitment center, everything going as normal.
Three hours spent midday at an event at a local high school answering questions from surly teenagers, on his feet the whole time.
Back to the center. There he changed clothes since he had an appointment with the PE Board in the afternoon.
"The what?"
"Physical Evaluation Board. They're checking to see my injury status."
"Didn't go well, I take it."
No, it hadn't. He was put through an arduous schedule of running and fighting, both in and out of battle gear and packs to see if he was combat-ready. His leg had betrayed him. It couldn't carry the weight of his packs, couldn't handle a mock forced march of any distance, nor was he able to ground fight for any length of time. He'd collapsed on the mats, right in front of the suits.
Taxi taken back home with him in a shitload of pain and a piss poor temper.
The expected phone call arrived when he'd been brooding in the townhouse. No, he was not authorized to return to duty and wasn't forecast to ever qualify as combat-ready again. Honorable separation offered with vocational rehabilitation and two years in the reserves, light duty.
Frustrated, enraged, he pushed himself out the front door, demanding more from his leg, more from himself. They were wrong. They had to be. His leg, however, proved otherwise. He'd barely made it home and was forced to admit that his leg was forever fucked.
She understood his frustration, but his decision made no sense. "Why would you want to go back?" Why return to the privation, the horror, and the danger of combat?
"Because I'm part of a unit." His voice slowed, slurring a bit, offering proof of the full pill he'd ingested. "I need to be with my team. They need me."
She knew the desperate need to belong and the risks someone would take to find a place. In fact, she was about to take one now. "But...I need you here."
The whispered confession fell on deaf ears because he'd already fallen asleep.
Annabel spent the night in Zach's living room, watching the moon drift across the cloud-threaded sky and meditating on the changed landscape of her world. Sunset had been a brilliant flash of red against a purple range of mountains on the north horizon. Dawn had arrived with a blush of pink across against Mount Hood.
The time passed uneventfully. She'd checked on him often. He'd slept deeply, a soft snore drifting from his relaxed mouth. She'd brushed her hand across his brow and face and was relieved to discover the pain-induced sweats had stopped. She'd removed the plate of half-eaten food. He'd felt chilled in the dark of night so she'd eased the comforter across him.
Yeah, he had cute toes.
Once he'd left the bed to use the bathroom. He hadn't noticed her standing in the hallway shadows when he'd stumbled back to bed and collapsed on it like a felled tree. He'd been asleep again by the time she'd reached his side. She'd stroked his cheek, the one he wasn't sleeping on, and tucked him beneath the blanket again before returning to the living room to wait...and to think.
With Zach, she felt safe. At heart, he was a protector and defender. That's why he'd dumped all over her last Saturday, in a guy's misdirected attempt to defend and protect his brother. It was also the reason why he'd put on a uniform and had gone to war--and was the reason he wanted to return to the war.
Not a question of honor or glory or ego, but one of duty. And one of belonging.
I need to be with my team. They need me.
Really, that said it all.
She understood the need. She felt it everyday
He was a hero, yes, but was he
her
hero? Did she have the courage to see if he was? Did she have the strength to endure the pain if he wasn't? Dawn's light brought her the answer.
Yes, she was strong enough.
Her time with Jeremy had been nothing but incompatible kinks. It happened. Going forward, she wouldn't carry the old bitterness. No matter what happened between her and Zach, she would love him, even if the choices he made regarding his future didn't include her. She wouldn't let fear be her way of life. Love would be the guiding force of her life, even if that meant letting him go.
The urge to run to Zach and find comfort in his embrace swamped her senses, but she stopped herself. He needed his sleep. He was a strong, vibrant man who was still healing. Yesterday had been grueling. Clearly. Keeping watch over her wounded hero, ensuring his safety, was an honor--even if he wouldn't appreciate it.
He'd growl. She had no doubt about that. And he'd be pissed over the pill trick.
What if she never had another moment with him? What if this week was all she'd ever get? She fisted a hand and pushed it against her stomach.
Fear is normal. It happens. It doesn't need to enslave me
.
Annabel pushed herself to her feet and wandered through the house. She touched and contemplated things, but they didn't actually resonate in her mind. A restless energy pushed at her and caused her to search out something... She didn't yet know what it was.
She found herself in the playroom and browsed. Familiar stuff filled the closet. Identifiable items, probably belonging to Seth, but left behind when he'd moved in with the new girl. She hastily shoved aside a stiff, leather belt and froze at the touch of silk.
It was Seth's trove of silks kept for the slaves-in-training who had once moved through his life. She'd worn a set herself. An earthquake of awareness trembled through her soul. So many colors, so exquisitely soft, engineered to please a man's eye and his hand, and she'd felt beautiful in them. She'd felt, finally, like she belonged.
She was, in her heart, soft and generous, a woman who loved and cared deeply. She lived to bring love into the lives of others, especially into the life of the one she loved, and who she hoped loved her in return.
At the feet of the slave master, she'd learned to live for the master's pleasure. The joy on his face when she'd pleased him was finer than any drug she'd ever experimented with. She delighted when pleasing the master, yet she'd lost that part of her in the fear-based race for control.
A sob caught at her throat. She would not allow the demons of her ugly past to deny the truth of her nature for one minute longer. She was a slave. Peace filled her.
"Yes, I am a slave."
She tore off her clothing. None of the silks were her size, but that was okay. She would go before Zach bare in body and soul. She would make her plea and whether he accepted her at his feet or denied her request, she would accept and endure.
Never again would she lose herself in fear.
However, this situation required one thing.
She searched, determined, carelessly pushing through items in the wardrobe drawers. Of course, it would be here, right? It was ludicrous to think Seth, Slave Master, didn't have a store of--
Ah, yes.
She plucked a training collar from a box of many, all of them identical.
The Portland, Oregon's Owner/property community initials had been stamped into the leather, along with Seth's. A small combination of letters that informed followers of their kink, the identity of her home kennel and her trainer. That was also okay; all of the information on the collar was true. She hadn't been expelled from their world. Mike had only tossed out her persona wrapped in leather and rage. As things stood, her vows to the community continued, just like the strong and vibrant beating of her heart.
She knelt before buckling the training collar around her throat, as protocol required. Only one person could take her rights away from her, and that was Annabel herself. Once collared, she existed as nothing more than a slave, as property to this community.
That was okay. In fact, it was more than okay.
A soft moan tore from her throat as the realization settled into her, core deep. Not a consciousness of fear, but one of joy. She'd found her place at last. It felt so good she started crying.
The tears kept her company as she attended to her next task: her hair.
The kitchen supplied a pair of scissors. The main bathroom supplied space. She ruthlessly removed the symbol of her past unhappiness, the visual representation of her discomfort within her own skin. The braids fell into the sink, two medusa-like snakes shorn from the gorgon's head.
Free of the self-imposed bondage, she fell into an orgy of cutting at the remaining darkness that stained her head. Scissors snapped; hair fluttered downward; she laughed. Finally, she stopped, her head resembling a dirty cotton ball as edges of black darkened her copper roots. She threw the hair in the sink into the bathroom trash--
good idea not to clog the toilet
--cleaned her face with soap and water, and took a good look at herself in the mirror.
Her reflected eyes gazed back at her, huge and green and fittingly without the familiar tragic shadows of memory and despair. The slender body and clean skin spoke of health and softness, thanks to regular meals and the actual desire to eat them. The circle of leather around her throat enhanced the peaches-n-cream tint of her skin. Raspberry nipples puckered against a gentle kiss of wafting air.
A scent caught her attention...coffee? In the kitchen, an appliance beeped. She followed the sound and the aroma, and discovered an automatic coffee machine, its pot now full of a Columbian blend, if the can beside the machine was any hint.
Lights on the device blinked. A timer, she realized. In the other room a deep, masculine voice yawned and made cranky complaints about, "Fucking Portland."
Zach had awakened.
She poured a mug of coffee and added two sugar cubes, his preference. She'd learned during their after-dinner chats. Her habit of pouring enough cream into the mug to turn it tan had provoked peals of laughter.
"Black coffee puts hair on your chest," he'd said.
"I don't want hair on my chest."
"Seems we are in agreement since I don't want hair on your chest either."
Her journey down the main hall to the master bedroom was accompanied by morning sounds from the bathroom: the flushing of the toilet, the running of tap water, the brushing of teeth, and, in this case, the rattle of a bottle of pills. She arrived at the entrance at the same moment he came through the door on the other side of the room.
Without sparing her a glance, he limped across the room and sank onto the mattress. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his face and the back of his neck. The play of his muscles beneath his skin was a pleasure to behold...until it dawned on her that the silence between them had stretched too long.
"I brought you some coffee," she said.
He said nothing, but remained still, his attention fixed on the floor at his feet.
Really? This was her thanks for spending the night watching over him? For tending to him? For
caring
for him? She pressed her lips together to muzzle the snippy comments that battered against her teeth and stepped inside the room, intending to set the mug of steaming liquid near his elbow. His question stopped her.
"How did you slip me the pill?"
Annabel shivered at the chilling detachment in his voice. "I didn't."
"It's still clearing my system. I can feel it. But I looked, just in case I was wrong. There's no half a pill in the bottle."
Oh, yeah, he was angry. She'd known this was coming. She leapt for her cover story and prayed it would hold. "A pharmacist once told me broken pills no longer had reliable effects after a few hours."
What a cranker of a lie!
"So I flushed it. Don't you remember me flushing it?"